


This Town the Color of Ashes

by izayoi_no_mikoto



Category: Kichiku Megane
Genre: Aftercare, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2019-01-05 08:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12186333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izayoi_no_mikoto/pseuds/izayoi_no_mikoto
Summary: The night after, Honda has more questions than answers.





	This Town the Color of Ashes

After it was over, after the horror and humiliation and pain had finally ended, after Katsuya had pulled out and rolled over and dropped off into sleep, Honda could do nothing but lie there and stare at the wall, seeing nothing.

Katsuya wasn't just a warmth in the bed beside him; Katsuya was the bruises on his arms, the ache in his jaw, the slick and agony between his legs.  Katsuya was shock and disbelief turned to terror.  Katsuya was a stranger's eyes gleaming cruelly in the face of his best friend.

Honda shuddered and buried his face in his hands.

How had this even _happened_?

For a moment–-one brilliant, shining, ecstatic moment-–Honda had been the happiest man alive.  Katsuya had come to _him_ , shown interest in _him_.  Years of resignation, of quashing hope, of satisfying himself with the classroom and the volleyball court and the office and the lunch table, of keeping his silence and grasping at what he could reach, of convincing himself that being Katsuya's best friend was enough.   _Years_ , and it was all wiped away in one glorious heartbeat, because _Katsuya wanted him_ –-

And then, somehow, it had all spiraled out of control.

 _I could have stopped him_ , Honda thought blankly.   _I could have fought him off_.  He was bigger than Katsuya, stronger, had always been; he kept himself in shape, was athletic, was powerful.  He could have shoved Katsuya off, punched him, pinned him down if necessary.  But the glint of those eyes behind those sharp silver frames was something foreign and terrifying, and it chilled Honda down to his very bones, an onslaught of terror that, despite all his size and strength, he was powerless to fight.

And if his fear hadn't stopped him, then the fact that it was Katsuya would have.

  _I should leave_ , Honda told himself.  Get up, maybe avail himself of Katsuya's shower, put his clothes back on, walk out of the apartment.  He'd missed the last train, but he could call a cab.  Go home.  Leave this place behind.  Leave behind what had happened here.

But he couldn't.  He ached inside and out, so fiercely he could barely even contemplate moving.  He didn't have the strength to drag himself out of this bed, and the weakness wasn't just physical.

His eyelids drifted lower until his vision was a tiny sliver, the dark window behind dark curtains and the fuzzy outline of the nightstand and the curve of the lamp and the metallic glint that was Katsuya's glasses.  But he didn't sleep–-couldn’t possibly sleep-–and so he noticed when, behind him, Katsuya's slow, gentle breathing suddenly hitched.

Movement-–Katsuya sitting up.  The rustling of sheets and hair.  "What," Katsuya mumbled, his voice low and barely intelligible in the night.  Then, a sudden intake of breath.  "...Honda?"

Katsuya reached over him, and Honda couldn't help it; he squeezed his eyes shut and flinched.  But there was no follow-up, not even a touch, just a click and a sudden flare of light that seared through his closed eyelids.  Katsuya had turned on the lamp, nothing more.

"Honda," Katsuya gasped, and the sound of his voice went right to Honda's heart and _pulled_ , because this Katsuya he knew.  Gone was the low, deliberate sneer; this was Katsuya's normal voice, and while the horror was new, it was full of the same self-recrimination and shame that Honda had heard far too often.  "No, no, no–-"

The thud of feet hitting floor.  Katsuya scampered off.  A door creaked.  A faucet squeaked, then burbled with water.  Footsteps approached-–Katsuya, returning.  Walking right up.

Honda didn't dare open his eyes, or try to flee, or do anything but lie there and breathe.  Whatever Katsuya was planning, whatever he was going to do-–Honda couldn't fight it, couldn't fight him.  He had never felt so defeated.

But when Katsuya's touch came, it was gentle, tentative, almost as though _he_ didn't dare.  Cool, damp–-a wet washcloth.  Gently wiping away the sweat and saliva and filth.  Running over his shoulders, his chest, even–-though there was a long, long hesitation–-between his legs.  Cleaning him, soothing him, erasing the proof of what had happened here.

The whole time, Katsuya's hands trembled so horribly it was a surprise he didn't drop the towel.  His breathing, too, was uneven, as though he were on the verge of breakdown.  When at last he was done, he stood up and walked away, threw the towel with a wet splat into the bathroom, came back, dragged a chair to the bedside and switched off the lamp.

Plunged once more into darkness, Honda cracked his eyes open.  Katsuya sat slumped in the chair, his forehead braced on his clasped hands, each inhale and exhale shaky.  Close enough to touch, but barred by an invisible gulf.  For a long time, he didn't move, didn't speak.  But then at last he lifted his head, just a little.

Honda cringed, but then he realized Katsuya wasn't looking at him.  No, Katsuya was looking at the nightstand, where his glasses sat innocently folded, the silver dully gleaming in the dim cityscape light that seeped through the curtains.

Katsuya reached out toward the nightstand, reaching, reaching.  But before he touched the glasses, his hand abruptly froze, his fingers twitching, almost recoiling.  Then, as though fighting gravity, he drew back, leaving the glasses where they were, and instead took Honda's hand in his own.  His head fell, and his shoulders began shaking.

"Honda," Katsuya whispered, his voice cracking, his fingers tightening.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."

**Author's Note:**

> (Inspired by the prompt: 100 words of hurt/comfort)


End file.
